High Functioning Facade
by CharlotteCumberbatch
Summary: John has his doubts about Sherlock, one day he snaps and the truth comes out. Drabble-ish.


**I hope you enjoy - written at an ungodly hour of the morning and influenced by Brandy.  
Thank you.**

**xoxox**

_"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."_

_"High functioning sociopath...with your phone number."_

_"I'm not a hero, I'm a high functioning sociopath!"_

Every time John heard those words, something inside him grimaced tiredly and after a while he managed to shut off to the absurd statement that Sherlock seemed to have rehearsed so perfectly over the years.

John Watson was a doctor, a doctor with a therapist. He knew, from his sessions (and google) that sociopaths, even high functioning ones, present themselves as something they're not - surely the repeated statement would be hypocritical in that sense. John Watson also knew that Sherlock faked his death _(to save him)_, killed a man in cold blood_ (to save both John and Mary)_, and that something wasn't right.

Snapping was inevitable.

**xoxox**

"- and a high-functio-"

"SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!"

A yell, a small and startled female scream, and a_ thud_ of the book falling to the floor.

Then silence.

The two men stared quietly at each other; one tense and thin-lipped as he stood staring down at the other, who was sprawled on his side on the sofa with his hands in the characteristic prayer position under his chin.

The silence stretched on, growing thicker and tenser... both men could feel it but neither wanted to be the one to break it.

**xoxox**

_Superficial charm?_ Sometimes, John thought, the man is definitely engaging but charming? That's a hard one. Sherlock had a habit of making people hate him, resent him... almost the opposite.  
_Grandiose self worth?_ John shook his head and his fingers hovered over the mouse. Somehow he doubted it, Sherlock seemed cocky sometimes undeniably, but other times it just looked like a facade.  
_Need for stimulation, prone to boredom?_ He didn't even have to think about this one; yes. The bullet holes in the walls, the drugs, the body parts scattered all over the kitchen...  
_Pathological lying?_ That one got John, sure Sherlock had faked his death (a pretty big lie right there) but his intent was to save his life. Did Sherlock lie often though? He wasn't sure, he doubted it.

As the list went on, John became more and more confused. There were some aspects (i.e childhood behavioral issues) that he couldn't answer, and sure as hell was not going to ask Mycroft.

He gave up with a sigh, resisting the urge to look up when he heard Sherlock yammering on at Donnovan;

_"High-functioning sociopath, actually."_

Ugh.

**xoxox**

It was too thick, choking now. Eye contact was broken when a soft pitter-patter of footsteps was heard from the street.

John coughed.

Sherlock sighed.

"You're not a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise."

"Oh."

The softly-spoken word was simple, not a question - it sounded more an observation and John sat, sinking into his chair. "You know you're not, Sherlock..." he murmured, eyes crinkling in confusion.

Sherlock closed his eyes; _spending more time on the laptop, the stares, the strange questions ("did you lie?" "why drugs?") the eyes rolling whenever he mentioned his self-diagnosis. Getting him drunk, the kind words, the "why did you fall?" Asking about Redbeard and Mycroft, the train, the incognito windows, the irritation in his voice whenever John asked about emotions. The triggers: 'you machine' was repeated, 'are all of my friends psychopaths?' and then... the vow._

"You've been doing your research, unnecessary, you could have just asked."

"You'd have lied..."

"True." There was no point in disputing that, Sherlock knew.

"Why?"

Green eyes opened slowly and met Johns own. "Why do I still say it, or why did I start?"

John blinked, frowned, then cocked his head to the left before a curt reply; "both."

Sherlock sat up, one fluid motion had him upright and a pensive expression across his angular features. A single dark curl fell across his eyes and he jerked his head, irritated. John watched as it fell back stubbornly.

"I was sick of being the freak that hid any emotion, a false diagnosis meant I at least had a reason for being so." Sherlock paused, fingers drumming; _want a cigarette, want a line, want..._

"Without a conscience, one cannot be hurt emotionally. Emotional pain would affect my studies, my ability to think, my cases. I think too much, even when I delete memories they're still in little boxes in my mind palace, never truly forgotten. Tried to blow them out once, I was fifteen, sick. Sick and tired. Then I decided to simply delete the emotions and focus on... what's important."_ I've said too much. Stop._

John blinked, he seemed to be blinking a lot lately. "You tried to...?" he shook his head, "blow the thoughts out?"

"Mycroft's pistol, pretty thing, AMT Skipper, his first gun... horrible scar it left too, that's why my hair is so long."

"You tried to kill yourself."

The thought of it hit John, harder perhaps than Reichenbach because the thought of a fifteen year old Sherlock holding his brothers gun to his head... "Sherlock..."

"John."

"You're not a sociopath."

"No."

"Not even a psychopath..."

"Correct."

John frowned, then stood to walk to the window. He looked down, "you're afraid" he said, voice barely above a whisper, "you're afraid of... being hurt? The 'high functioning sociopath' line is to... cover up any vulnerability... to hide? To... protect?"

"Mhm...I suppose that deduction too, is correct. You're improving, John."

The doctor smiled, shaking his head. "You're still a pain in the ass, Sherlock."

A laugh, a real one this time.

"Old habits die hard." Sherlock said, humour in his voice as he joined his friend to gaze down at the street below. This silence was comfortable, and the truth settled not between them, but around them now. Joining them in a mute, soft understanding.

**xoxox END xoxox**

**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! :)**


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